Over the long weekend, I treated myself to three 44 oz. Diet Cokes. Not all at one time, of course. One each day. I jumped right back into the routine. It's like riding a bicycle. You never forget how to enjoy a 44ozDC.
Along with the consumption of this delectable elixir come certain side effects. Alertness. Euphoria. Bladderbloating. Lucky for me, the NASCAR bathroom is right next to my office. A hop and a skip, really. But Monday there was a jump.
I estimate that I was on my third trip across the black-and-white-checkered tiles that so emulate a finish flag. I had just arisen from the throne, my current business done, when I saw my predicament. As I reached for the lever to flush away a portion of my 44ozDC, there was movement just under the rim.
A DADDY LONG-LEGS WAS REACHING OUT TWO LENGTHY LIMBS, FEELING OUT THE SITUATION UP TOP!
My heart fluttered in my throat. Three times, I had plopped my nether regions down on that seat! Three times, but for the grace of Sweet Gummi Mary, Even Steven, and Accumulated Karma, I was seconds and centimeters away from that creepy crawly critter climbing onto my exposed flesh. Please shudder with me at the thought.
It could have been worse, I suppose. Just ask Beulah Balbricker from Porky's II: The Next Day. That poor sweet gym teacher had to contend with a SNAKE in the toilet, put there by Tommy Turner. They had kind of a history, Beulah and Tommy, ever since she grabbed his...but I digress.
The daddy long-legs appearance was my own fault. I had seen him lurking behind the door a few days ago. He wasn't bothering me. Not like some wayward field mouse or slithery centipede making rustling noises in my office. So I let him be. We observed a somewhat shaky truce. He stayed behind the door, and I pretended he was not there. He broke his part of the bargain.
Oh, how he had lured me into a false sense of security. How could a creature called a Harvestman be bad? He doesn't even have venom like his spidery kin. A Harvestman. A hard-working sort, toiling in the fields, wiping the sweat from his brow and red neck with a dripping dark-blue bandana, salt of the earth, just trying to get by, not meaning harm to anyone.
Of course, I doubt you would want a harmless Harvestman peering at you from inside your toilet, either. Especially after you had just exposed your tender parts to him three times. Mr. Harvestman must have sensed my embarrassment. He ducked back inside the indoor outhouse. I forced my shaky legs to carry me back to my keyboard.
The thing with a 44ozDC is that it's a gift that keeps on giving. All to soon, I was rushing back to the varmint hole. I saw Mr. Harvestman take a quick peek. I grabbed two squares of toilet paper and knocked him into the bowl proper. And drowned him with a deluge. One quick flush, and the nightmare was over.
I imagine Mr. Harvestman is doing the backstroke in the septic tank right about now.